The Debt
by cheride
Summary: These guys make a lot of bets, but what happens when it's time for one to be paid?


_**The Debt**- cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: G

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**Author's Notes:** Just a short tag to the episode, "Too Rich and Too Thin", which, as L.M.L. pointed out, already has two of them, so, heck, why not a third?

Thanks to Karie, who wondered, over on the Gulls Way board, "Did the judge ever pay Mark that $500?", and to L.M. Lewis, who—among other things—helps keep me in "guy talk".

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When McCormick walked back into the den, carrying sandwiches and beer, Hardcastle was right where he'd left him twenty minutes earlier, sitting quietly, picture frame in hand. He paused before stepping further into the room, wondering if maybe the older man would rather be alone.

But almost as if the unnatural stillness was what got his attention, the judge looked up. "You don't need to be tiptoeing around, kiddo." He set the picture aside on the table between the two chairs, then reached up to take the beer bottles.

McCormick placed the two paper plates on the table as well, then dropped into his own armchair. He reached out and pulled a chip from his plate, casting a sideward glance at the other man, then at the picture. He chewed for a moment, then finally spoke.

"It was a nice session, Judge; I think Tyler would've liked it."

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "Yeah, I think so." He grabbed his sandwich off the plate and began nibbling. Then he said, "You know, it was nice of you to join in."

"Tyler was a good guy; he was always nice to me."

"You mean he laughed at your dumb jokes," Hardcastle huffed.

"Well, yeah, that was part of it," McCormick agreed good-naturedly.

"Besides," the judge added, "my friends are always nice to you."

Mark conveniently took a bite of his sandwich and chose not to answer. This probably wasn't the time to tell Hardcastle about the odd acquaintance or two that were civil in the judge's presence, but, in his absence, were bluntly disapproving of the ex-con. There was certainly nothing surprising about it; honestly, McCormick had always been _more_ surprised by the willingness with which most of Hardcastle's friends accepted him. Friends like Tyler Peebles.

Now that things had settled down, and Tyler's killers had been brought to justice, it was sinking in for the judge that he had lost a good friend. This evening's concert from The Jazzmasters had been Hardcastle's way of saying goodbye—much more than last week's funeral—and McCormick thought the grieving was setting in in earnest now.

They ate silently for many minutes, and McCormick hoped he was doing the right thing by staying here with the judge. When Hardcastle had decided to go to Watersong and get to the bottom of Tyler's death, the young man had finagled himself into the case without hesitation. But that hadn't really been about Tyler; that had been about making sure Hardcastle didn't go wandering into something dangerous without backup.

He supposed it was the same sort of thing now; he wanted to be around if the judge needed help. But, as usual, he was mostly content to follow the older man's lead.

They had finished their sandwiches, and McCormick had finished both piles of chips, before Hardcastle spoke again.

"You're right; he was a good guy," he said, as if almost half an hour hadn't passed since McCormick had made the observation. "One of the best. He was good, and honest, and fair. In fact, I think he might've been just about the fairest person I've ever known. That's what made him so good at what he did."

McCormick just smiled and nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself. There was no way he was telling this old donkey that he thought he was sitting next to a pretty fair guy, himself. That was the sort of thing that would surely come back around to bite him in the butt.

"And," Hardcastle glanced over at the younger man, "he really did think your jokes were funny. He wasn't just trying to be nice." He arched an eyebrow. "And my friends _are_ nice to you, aren't they?"

McCormick smiled slightly. "Sure they are, Judge; you've seen 'em."

The jurist nodded absently, then lapsed back into silence. A few minutes later, he pushed himself out of the chair, crossed over to his desk, then came back to the chair, carrying an envelope. He tossed the envelope into McCormick's lap before seating himself again.

"What's this?" Mark asked, surprised.

"If you opened it," Hardcastle growled, "you wouldn't have to ask."

Chuckling, McCormick lifted the flap and peeked inside. The stack of twenty dollar bills surprised him further. "What's this?" he asked again.

"Five hundred dollars. We had a bet. Sometimes I forget how useful that non-stop mouth of yours can be; convincing, too."

"Yeah, you do," McCormick told him with a smile. He folded the flap back down inside the envelope and tossed it onto the table. "But I don't want your money, Judge."

"Well, why not? A bet's a bet."

"Yeah, but that wasn't a _real_ bet; that was just me running that non-stop mouth of mine."

"What's a _real_ bet?" Hardcastle demanded. "You said 'I bet you', I said 'okay'; doesn't that make it a bet?"

McCormick leaned his head back against the chair and took a drink from his bottle, thinking. "Well, okay," he said after a moment, "it was a bet. But it was a sucker bet. And friends don't take money from friends on sucker bets."

"Hmph! Since when? And what do you mean, anyway, a sucker bet? They could've turned you down."

"Nah, not really." McCormick shook his head to confirm his words.

Hardcastle turned to face the young man directly. "Now you're just being big-headed about it," he accused.

"That's not what I meant." He hadn't raised his head, but he could feel Hardcastle staring the question at him. He took another drink. He was beginning to think he should've just taken the money.

"It's just that nothing was going to keep me out, Judge. You were going, so I was going. They didn't stand a chance." He said it lightly, but he was pretty sure the judge would recognize its truth.

"Oh." Hardcastle settled himself back into his chair and took a swallow from his own bottle.

After several seconds of silence, McCormick snuck a glance toward the other chair. The older man had assumed a position matching his own; head leaned back, staring at the ceiling, beer bottle in hand. And there was a small smile on his face.

"Well I don't welsh on my bets," Hardcastle said after a few more seconds, "so maybe we could just consider it a bonus, or something."

And then Mark laughed. "Do you really want to set that precedent—paying me to be stubborn?"

"Maybe not," Hardcastle decided with a grin.

"Hey," McCormick said suddenly, "I have an idea. Tyler was involved in a lot of charities, right?"

"Yeah; he cared about a lot of things."

The young man nodded. "Okay. Then lets pick one and make a donation; how's that? Would that satisfy your sense of honor?"

Hardcastle raised up and looked over at the other man. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea; do you have one in mind?"

"I dunno." McCormick shrugged as he took another swig. "What kinds of things did he do?"

"Oh, a lot," Hardcastle answered, running his hand over his head as he thought. "There were all sorts of organizations; environmental issues; homeless folks; underprivileged kids; the arts; historical societies—"

"The arts?" McCormick interrupted.

"Yeah. All kinds; painting, music, whatever."

"I think that sounds good," Mark decided. "Some kind of music scholarship, or something."

"Music scholarship?" Hardcastle seemed surprised by the choice.

"Oh, yeah." McCormick nodded emphatically. "This is my chance to make sure someone turns out better than the Jazzmasters."

"Hey!" The judge glared across the table.

But McCormick was unrepentant. "Don't 'hey' me." He grinned and gestured toward the photograph. "Tyler would've thought that was funny."

"You're probably right," Hardcastle conceded, settling into his chair again. "He never did have very good taste in comedy."


End file.
